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Corvan Tarmael
Email: mystslongpast@hotmail.com Description Eye Color: Crystalline Blue Hair Color: Platinum Blonde Height: 5'9" Weight: 160 Age: 17 Place of Origin: From Fal Dara?s Outlying Farms in Shienar Stats Rank: Trainee Weaopon Score: 2 Philosophy: Not Choosen Yet Primary Weapon: Secondary Weapon: Tertiary Weapon: History Corvan Tarmael 17 Years of Age Originally From Fal Dara?s Outlying Farms in Shienar Platinum Blonde Hair Color Crystalline Blue Eye Color Current Height 5'9", Full Mature Height 6'1" Current Weight 160#, Full Mature Weight 185# Footsteps stroked through the lightly frosted ground beneath him. He tried to take each step without taking it for granted. The scythe at his right side was swung about in smooth cyclical manner, yielding into the basket he carried his heavy crop. His family was divided inwardly, he could tell it by the way his father?s eyes failed to shine when they looked upon his face. It was a hard loss to accept, given the life upon the border. His grandfather had served a renowned King, and served in the fall of the Seven Towers, escaping wounded and meeting in Shienar, where he spent the last of his days. The old stories were taught to his son, Corvan?s father, and the ways passed on. It was strange, how far away they sounded now. The White Tower was honored, and the Warders who guarded them without peer in battle and in the eyes of the Shienarans. But his choice to make an oath to the Tower did not sit as well with his family or Shienar as he would have hoped. ?One day the banner will be raised, and we must ride to reclaim the Seven Towers, son,? he had heard his father say so many times. Indeed, all of Shienar seemed to tell tales of the former borderlands, and were by their own words ready to reclaim it for their lost brothers was there a way. Another scything of grain was drawn into his basket. That is why the decision means so much. To be sworn to protect another over the lineage I was born into meant the same it meant for many Borderlander sons. The task that the Borderlanders saw to was too difficult for most, and every man needed. From the time he could first hold and draw a bow, targets were made and practices held on a daily basis with his old Grandfather, while his father worked the fields, or was off for the King sweeping along the Blight?s borders. He was taken hunting on long trips, where the land was told to him, and the plants and animals explained. He had reached the end of the field, and he turned back now to walk toward the small barn where the dummy still sat upon the pole. It was dressed as if out of a nightmare, and was over seven feet in height, towering over the fourteen year old boy. He knew they were real, he had seen them in the darkened nights he spent in Fal Dara. He had heard their horns and felt the air stirred by their drums. Father had said that he should learn to deal with their size from a youth, so that he was prepared to fight the true enemy, not other men, and so that he was less fearful of them the larger he grew. It was well and good to learn that way, he supposed, and his father had many ways of teaching him which were different from others. The basic forms of armor were shown to him, the way they were worn and the way they were meant to move and protect. Growing up in the Borderlands armor was a part of life, and so were the questions he used to ask about what the weapons were they carried. Now that he opened the door and looked inside the small barn, he knew how silly the questions must have seemed. Axes were for hacking in typical hooking and sweeping motions, good for power and breaking through armor, but slower and requiring more strength and control than a sword. Broadswords and longswords, short swords and lances, bows and staffs, slings and arrows. All of the younglings would play about with their balanced, weighted weapons upon the practice dummies. They tried to hold to their forms, but often times broke down and began running around, imagining they were on some great adventure. ?Oh no, a fade!? they would yell, and quickly circle it warily, waiting for the opportune time amidst various feints before one by one they lunged forward and did the Light?s deed upon the imaginary Shadow. It was hard to say when he first felt the tug of his desires to go to the Tower. He had seen Sedai before, their forms so inspiring and glorious. The Warders all seemed so hard, harder than even his father had seemed. They were treated with such respect, such awe, and men would whisper of the things they could do. They were a greater weapon against the Shadow than a hundred lances, it was said. If that was true, then why should he not protect them? Why should he use but one lance, when that one lance combined with them might become more useful in the Pattern?s weaves? He placed the basket upon the ground, and looked across the barn. Siktir snorted lightly hearing him come. His horse had been given to him two years ago by his mother and father, as he celebrated his step toward manhood. After two years of riding and learning the lance, and his shots from horseback, he could ride reasonably well on flat ground and still nail a boar?s haunch with a shot from his bow without tumbling out of his seat, or clipping Siktir?s side with the bow string. Lancing was more difficult, and he was not certain he was made for it. It came easier once you were larger and stronger, and had worn armor longer, his father had told him. Perhaps it was true. One day he would probably be a good soldier, other boys? parents had told him; everyone in his family had meditation, helping him focus on all things. When he was younger, he would use it to try and play as if he was lost in the wilderness. He would walk out into the tall fields and spin round and round until he fell upon the ground dizzily. Then he would rise and try to ignore the fact that he could follow his footprints out. Instead, he would try to meditate. Clarity came at times, and he would smell the scents of his mother?s meat pies wafting slowly over the smell of grain, and he would find his way back. It helped him in riding, and feeling Siktir beneath him when he needed to make a jump or go down a steep grade, in dealing with pain or tiredness enough to lift heavy items or to make one final sprint, and even in focusing upon the forms his father made him practice with his lathe, or as it had today, in thinking while still swinging his scythe and doing his work around the home. He rarely let it go when he could manage to capture it now, everything seemed so much simpler, so black and white, so crisp, so real while he held it. It would always be shattered by something, but he was slowly beginning to struggle to hold it for a little longer as time progressed. Siktir was saddled now, and packed with the belongings he would take with him to Tar Valon. It was going to be a long, hard road, and over the previous year he had hired himself out for odd jobs from hunting, skinning, to cutting wood and scything fields when old man Krenleth had broken his arm. He had enough coin that he had arranged to accompany a merchant selling tabac back down along the way to Tar Valon. The deal was made easier by the simple fact of having another rider, young or not, making for better odds if something bad should happen. He smiled, seeing Siktir look up over the large pack of belongings he carried so easily. His father had given him his grandfather?s old armor, and the blade and bow he had wanted to give him upon his next year?s marking when he had hoped he would go on his first full patrol along the Blight. That would have to wait now, but the awe of carrying his history with him to the Tower was enough to bring a shine to his eyes from tears. A final look around the barn was enough for him. His parents rested inside, and dawn had not yet come. He had felt it necessary to scythe the grain for his father, and give he and Mother time to relax some this day, the day that their son left their home, his place on the Borderlands, and followed the Wheel?s turning toward his future, toward the stories to come. He checked the strappings of Siktir?s saddle and hauled himself up smoothly, wrapping his winter cloak about him tighter, and with an easy tug upon the reigns, set off toward the road to Tar Valon where he would catch up with the merchant. Category:WS 2 Category:Trainee Category:Biographies Category:Warder Bios